


Home Flight

by winkola



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Art, Choices, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Editor Draco Malfoy, Friends to Lovers, H/D Career Fair 2017, Heartbreak, M/M, Making Hard Decisions, Minor Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley, Post-Hogwarts, Writer Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-19
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-12-25 23:37:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12046674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winkola/pseuds/winkola
Summary: Draco is a junior editor at a Muggle publishing company. He has grown to hate his job and is on the edge of quitting until he finds a life changing manuscript.





	Home Flight

**Author's Note:**

> For Prompt #[195](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1LiaSm8GWFLsDD8KUOZmlTSHmhIMyFZzdqYNfB-25Khk/edit).
> 
> Thank you to my beta, silverbandhoe (@tumblr). You are a lifesaver.

"Draco, darling." Pansy delicately sipped at her afternoon blanc. "If you hate this job so much, why don't you just quit?"

 

Draco's latest rant about being the junior editor at _All Reads_ crashes to a halt as he takes her in.

 

Pansy is lounging against her settee in the latest, most fashionable robes money can buy, bathed in the charmed, artificial light of her terrace. Her drink is cool, being constantly refreshed by her house elf Milly. Her face holds a relaxed expression that only the truly indolent can achieve. Her biggest concern, as far as Draco is aware, is whether she should be out here, or in her lush bed when her highly indulgent husband, Goldstein, comes home for their lunchtime lovemaking.

 

Draco is seething with jealousy.

 

And what makes it worse is that she is absolutely right.

 

There is no logical reason for Draco to be sloughing around as a salary worker, being paid a piteous and unnecessary wage under an incompetent bean of a boss.

 

But Draco's pursuit is not a logical one.

 

To Draco's shock, he had been deemed innocent of all war crimes following the war. He is sure that Potter and his band of goody goodies are responsible for that. He'd been relieved, of course, to escape Azkaban but a hollowness had been carved into him. Emptied of the constant fear and anxiety, Draco hadn't known what to feel anymore. Feeling wary of his reception by the Wizarding public, he had been forced to drift among Muggle streets until curiosity forced him into popping into a bookstore one day.

 

He was shocked to discover that Muggle literature could be just as arresting as the works of wizards. He buried himself in Muggle writings about history, adventures, medicine, and even magic! Most of it was nonsense, of course. Only to be expected, being Muggle literature. The great witch Maleficent forcing Aurora into a deep sleep? Really! Even the dullest Wizarding child knew Aurora, the insipid busy-body, had accidentally swallowed a goblet of Sleeping Draught!

 

But he was hooked.

 

When Draco had finally drawn up the nerve to speak to one of the pox-faced youth that manned the check out desk, he'd found out that one of the publishing houses was just blocks away! The paperwork to transcribe his Wizarding merits into Muggle qualifications had been trivial work, and within a week he had began his work at _All Reads_ _Publishing_. A little bribing and strategic sabotage had seen him promoted to the position of Junior Editor within six months.

 

Unfortunately, it's been five years and Draco is starting to question his initial enthusiasm. Most of the manuscripts that make it past _All Reads'_ implausible vetting process to his desk are often not worth the paper that they're printed on. Further, in those rare occasions that something passable reaches his desk, his boss Quigley acts as a barrier wall.

 

Quigley assesses works solely based on their marketability. How an aged, balding layabout with an odd affinity for all things yellow can assess what is “marketable” is beyond Draco's understanding.

 

“If it won't sell then why should we publish it?” The great pig of an ogre had blatantly stated while rejecting one of Draco's rare findings: a novel surveying the life of a wandering artist that is forced to take on odd jobs and meet even stranger people along the way.

 

“Look at this one, boy,” Quigley blubbered, casually sweeping Draco's pick to a messy corner of his desk littered with Tesco bags and sweet wrappers. He placed a book sample in front of Draco with hot pink splashed all over the cover, a scantily clad young woman, and the flashy title _Diamond Dixie's Destiny_. “This is what our readers want.”

 

 _Dear Merlin_ , it _alliterated_!

 

Quigley slammed his open hand on the cover to emphasize his point.“It's controversial and i-it's what they want!”

 

Draco had read the draft manuscript of the pick when it had first been brought in, and his opinion was that the text had been little more than a teenager's manual for sex and making poor decisions. He highly doubted that much had been changed before it was deemed ready for print.

 

It was this conversation that had driven Draco out of his office to spend his lunch hour angrily snipping at Pansy.

 

Now, Draco sat back into the seat opposite Pansy's. He turned his gaze to the glass door that led back into Pansy's home and, as he looked at his reflection, felt the weight of Pansy's question like a boulder crushing his chest. Why was he even doing this anymore?

 

Across from him, his best friend glowed, looking young and carefree in her vapid lifestyle; peace and contentment like slowly falling leaves around her, gently enveloping her. The contrast between her haggard appearance after the War and this beautiful vixen now basking in her life was striking. In his own reflection, the only differences that Draco could see in himself were the signs of aging. Bags weighed under his eyes, his hair was limp from disrepair and constantly running his hands through it in frustration. Even his expensive Muggle suit was wrinkled and draped over his skinny frame. When was the last time he'd even eaten a proper meal?

 

Draco shrunk into himself, the realization that he was still the same frightened and lost person of five years ago smothering him. The weight of his own disappointment threatened to overcome him.

 

“I have to go Pans.”

 

“Draco-”

 

Pansy made to rise but she was not fast enough to catch Draco before he disapparated.

 

Draco trudged back into his office, ignoring an editorial assistant's attempt to get his attention.

 

When he sat behind his desk he looked around his office will fresh eyes. He'd been given this office when he'd been promoted to the position of junior editor. He'd been elated and full of hope, imaging endless days swimming in the tales of strangers and brilliant, insightful dialogue. Now, he saw the small shoe box for the prison that it was.

 

Frantically, and with a urgency that had become unfamiliar to him, Draco scrambled for a piece of paper. He would write his resignation letter, toss it at Quigley's fat head, and stalk out of this crushing failure of a job this very afternoon- nay, this very minute.

 

His hands shifted through stray papers, unopened letters, and unread samples. He must have knocked something over because he heard a dull thump. Already mentally constructing his resignation letter, he quickly glanced over his desk to peek at the fallen item. Then he did a double-take and looked back. He reached over the side of the desk to retrieve the script, then sat back in his swivel chair while he surveyed the mess of stapled copy and notebook paper. The state of the submission! The author must be a right nutter if they sent something so ridiculous to a publisher.

 

 _How did it even make it to my desk?_ Draco wondered.

 

He turned the script to (what he assumed was) the front cover and had to halt a surprised bubble of laughter. _What the hell is this?_

 

On the makeshift cover was what seemed to be a child's drawing scribbled in crayon of a blue and red bird in a starry sky with an inked title, _Home Flight_.

 

 _Well,_ Draco thought.

 

Almost as if he were compelled, Draco flipped the page and dove in.

 

He didn't emerge until much later when there was a tapping on the door frame of his office. He hadn't even heard the door opening. He looked up to see the assistant from earlier. His hands were weighed down by a tray of food that made Draco's stomach rumble. He stretched, cracking his back and was surprised when he looked out his office window to see that night had already fallen.

 

“So you had a chance to look at it,” the assistant smiled at him while he placed the food in front of Draco.

 

Draco blinked a few times, shedding the scene he'd been in and coming back to himself. “Sorry?”

 

“I know,” the assistant continued, enthused, “it had the same effect on me when read it.” The assistant indicated the script.

 

“ _You_ put this on my desk?” Draco rose abruptly, encircling his desk and approaching the assistant ( _What_ was _his name?_ ). Uncertainty dipped the assistant's smile a bit.

 

He stepped back as he answered, “Yes, sir. Yes, I did.”

 

“Where did it come from?” Draco's expression must have been crazed. He mentally acknowledged that he might be scaring the poor man but he couldn't care less at the moment. “Who wrote this?” He picked the script up from his desk waving it about. The damned thing didn't even have the author's name!

 

“It was a woman, sir.”

 

“What woman? Did you get her name? Address? I'll take her bloody street, if you have it!”

 

Quickly, the assistant reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a crumbled paper -Draco saw that it was a back of a receipt. “She left this.”

 

Draco snatched the paper out of the man's grip and swept away.

 

*

 

When he appeared at the address scribbled on the paper - _wherever this was_ , Draco's common sense kicked in to inform him that randomly apparating to unknown locations to meet stranger's might not be the wisest course of action. He shivered as he took in the line of houses in front of him. He must have forgotten his coat in the rush out of the publishing building.

 

Draco felt a tinge, alerting him to magic in the area. It was coming from the house to his left and he glanced once again at the paper to confirm that it was the place he was looking for.

 

The author was a witch.

 

His wariness spiked even more. Outside of his circle of friends and loved ones, Draco hadn't been around anyone magical in years.

 

He could turn away. He could go back to his office, write his resignation letter, _Incendio_ Quigley's desk and call it a day. He could go to sleep and wake up ready to start a new life, again.

 

But the clump of haphazardly stapled papers in his hands had stolen those options away. He'd known as soon as he entered the world that this madwoman created that this work had to be shared. Draco gripped his resolve and approached the home.

 

Draco had to wade through overgrown foliage to get to the rust-red door. He stepped on a doormat and raised his hand to the knocker, but jumped inches back as he felt a sting on his ankle. He bent over to inspect the reddened skin, thinking a bug must have bitten him. The door opened while his head was bent.

 

“Sorry about that, Biddle's a lit overprot- Malfoy?”

 

Maybe this was the suspended punishment for his war crimes, Draco thought bitterly, as he looked up to find none other than Ginerva Weasley. “Biddle?” Draco dared to ask.

 

Weasley pointed to the doormat and Draco saw that it was moving; a moving dragon that seemed to be giving Draco the ugly eye. “It was a present from Charlie,” Weasley explained, smirking. “What are you doing here Malfoy? Actually, how did you even find this place?”

 

Biting his tongue on his opinion on ankle-biting, sentient dragon doormats, Draco lifted the harassed paper containing the address for Weasley to see.

 

“Oh.” She supplied helpfully. “I didn't expect this.” Then she threw her head back and laughed.

 

Draco gave her a minute to regain her wits. “If you are quite finished. I would like to discuss the matter of bringing this to print.” Draco indicated the manuscript.

 

“It's good isn't it?” Weasley leaned against the door, her arms crossed.

 

Draco had always known the Weasley brood were completely without manners, this was nothing new. However, he had at least thought that the basic decorum of inviting a guest inside for tea had at least reached their ... _level_. Instead, Weasley was not inviting Draco in because she was busy patting her own back-

 

But, Draco had to admit, “Yes. It is.”

 

Weasley blinked, clearly shocked at Draco's admission, Draco thought vindictively. “That's nice. Good to hear, but what are you doing here, Malfoy?”

 

Draco maneuvered, placing the script under his arm as he retrieved his wand from the charmed holster along his thigh. Weasley stiffened when she saw the wand but did not move from her relaxed position. Draco thought that was a bit daft, seeing as he could easily hex her but he let it go as he summoned his business card. “I am a junior editor at _All Reads_ and, as I stated,” Draco drowned his irritation in politeness, “I would like to publish this work.”

 

“Really?” Weasley leaned into him eagerly, “Can you print it?”

 

“Well, yes,”Draco answered, “I will bring it to my boss-”

 

“Who is it, Ginny?” No, now _this_ was punishment for every evil thing he'd ever done, Draco lamented as a scruffy raven head approached Weasley from behind. Draco's mood took a dive off irritation and sunk deep into despair. “Malfoy?”

 

“Potter.” Draco nodded. He forced himself to hold Potter's gaze. He held Potter's gaze long enough for things to become thoroughly awkward, but he refused to lose.

 

“Er, what are you doing here?”

 

How many times was he going to go through this in one night? He almost wanted to ask if there was anyone else present so he wouldn't have to go through this insipid ritual again. “I am here to-,” He reached for the script but his hands came up empty. He looked down, bewildered, then looked up and caught Weasley's eye. She was making a zipper motion with her hand over her lips. Had she performed a spell just then? Draco would have been impressed if he wasn't so incensed. And if she wasn't a Weasley. “Weas-”

 

“I invited him, Harry.” Weasley turned to Potter and began pushing him back inside, “he'll be joining us for supper.”

 

“Why would he-”

 

“Why would I-”

 

“See you inside!” Weasley cut them both off by slamming the door on Potter's face, leaving her and Draco outside. She (rudely) waved her hand in front of Draco's face to silence him as she put her ear to the door. After a minute she turned back to Draco.

 

“So you can print it?”

 

Draco considered chasing his curiosity and demanding answers for Weasley's strange behavior but he decided against it. “Yes, however,” Draco flipped to the end of the script and indicated the last available page, “I will, of course, need a finished version.”

 

“When will it go to print?”

 

“Well, I can't really guarantee-”

 

“No deal,” Weasley made a slicing motion with her hand, cutting Draco off. She turned as if to walk away, and Draco grabbed her arm in complete panic. He was forced to quickly remove his hand when a stinging curse ran up his arm.

 

“Either you promise you can print this or I walk away,” Weasley threatened as she put away her wand.

 

Draco thought about the fact that Quigley would probably reject Draco's pitch without a second's thought just like almost everything else Draco had pitched. _But it's different this time_ , Draco thought. This work _needed_ to be printed. “I promise.”

 

Weasley examined him for a second, her fierce eyes were almost amber under the entrance's light and they bore into Draco. He refused to waver, forcing his determination through. “Good.” She finally nodded. “You'd better come in. I already told Harry you were staying.”

 

Draco wavered, then. He had little interest in stepping into Weasley and Potter's love nest, and even less interest in being witness to their canoodling. However, he felt that his agreement with Weasley was still a fragile one, and he did not want to risk it's dissolution by refusing her invitation to dinner. Draco grit his teeth and soldiered on after her.

 

The house looked much bigger on the inside then the outside implied. Weasley led him past a wide foyer that had three entryways. One led to stairs, through another Draco peeked at a living area warmed by a crackling fireplace, and the middle one which Weasley led him through was a hallway that led to a dining area. Draco heard laughter before he fully entered, and his hackles rose at the thought of more red hair or a tangle of hazel curls. He was surprised to find a blonde head leaning into Potter's raven nest instead.

 

“Hello, Draco.” Lovegood smiled up at him. She greeted him as if Draco came around for dinner all the time. Draco had a sneaking suspicion that he now knew who the “artist” behind the cover of _Home Flight_ was. In contrast to Lovegood's warm reception Potter remained guarded and simply watched Draco's entrance.

 

Draco nodded at Lovegood and acted to sit next to her, but Weasley hipped checked him and plopped herself next to Lovegood. Before Draco could voice his outrage, Weasley placed a kiss directly on Lovegood's lips. Lovegood giggled and returned the kiss. Potter simply rolled his eyes heavenward as if to say, _Not this again._

 

Draco dazedly sat down next to Potter on the only seat left surrounding the small, circular dining table. _Oh_ , he thought _._

 

“You're in luck Draco,” Lovegood said when she finally emerged. “Harry made his specialty tomato-basil pasta!”

 

“Luna,” Potter groaned.

 

“Don't be modest now, Harry! Just because Malfoy's here.” Weasley teased.

 

Draco finally noticed that there was a plate of (delicious looking, he grudgingly admitted) pasta in front of him. He picked up his fork and took a forkful while he drowned out the friendly bickering around him. A helpless moan forced it's way out of Draco's mouth after his first bite.

 

Draco blinked his eyes open and saw that the other occupations of the table were looking at him. Lovegood's expression was encouraging. Weasley looked on the verge of laughing again. Potter was openly staring.

 

“I haven't eaten since breakfast,” Draco sneered at Potter in case he got any funny ideas about Draco's reaction.

 

Potter frowned. “No one's begging you to eat it Malfoy,” he snapped back.

 

Draco humphed and took another bite.

 

*

 

After the meal, Potter took all the plates to the sink to wash. By hand. _He looks so bloody domestic_ , Draco thought as he made his exit.

 

“You're welcome to stay. We were just about to play a round of exploding snaps,” Lovegood invited.

 

“Thank you, Lovegood-”

 

“Luna,” Lovegood corrected.

 

“Thank you, Luna,” Draco rolled his eye inwardly. How Lovegood hadn't been placed in Hufflepuff, he would never know. “But it is late, and I have an early morning tomorrow.” He would post himself firmly in Quigley's office as soon as he made it to the office tomorrow. “I'll take my leave then.”

 

“Wait Malfoy! I'll see you out,” Weasley placed a kiss on top of Lovegood's head as she followed Draco to the door. “Back in a bit, Love.”

 

Draco almost felt sorry for Potter who had to put up with this constant PDA from his housemates.

 

Draco sneered at the doormat as he deliberately stepped over it. Biddle huffed, adding decorative lines of smoke to the mat's design that slowly faded away. No actual smoke emitted from the mat. _That's good to know_ , Draco thought smugly (and a little bit in relief).

 

“I wouldn't provoke him if I were you,” Weasley warned. Draco broke his staring contest with the mat, a little embarrassed to be caught out. “Biddle can be really resourceful.” Weasley bent over and tickled where the chin of the illustrative dragon was. Draco could swear he heard a purring noise.

 

“Anyway,” Weasley continued as she rose. She reached into her robes and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I wanted to give you this.”

 

Draco just managed not to snatch the paper's out her hands, recognizing what they must be.

 

“But the final chapter isn't there,” Weasley admitted.

 

Draco didn't stamp his foot in frustration; he was past that phase of indulging in childish tantrums. “Why not?”

 

“You made a promise Malfoy. Keep it and I'll give it to you.”

 

A protest was on the tip of Draco's tongue, but Weasley bulldozed over him. “And come back for dinner! You look like you're about to fade away.” Weasley closed the door after her parting shot.

 

*

 

Draco realized that the universe was using him as the butt of some cosmic joke when he came into work the next morning and Quigley's assistant informed him that he was away at American for a convention.

 

“And when can we expect him back?” Draco gritted out.

 

“Mr. Quigley will return at the conclusion of the convention. Unfortunately, I cannot confirm a conference with Mr.Quigley at the moment.” Jen parroted the answer like a recorded message. Her expression was blank but Draco just knew that Jen delighted in refusing him. In the past, there had been countless occasions in which he'd stormed past her and into Quigley's office.

 

“Very well.” Draco nodded. He was not admitting defeat but retreating, for now.

 

*

 

“So. You came back,” Weasley greeted him.

 

“Yes. Well,” Draco coughed delicately. “I just wanted to give you an update.”

 

“Uh huh.” Weasley folded her arms. “Malfoy your nostrils are flaring.”

 

Draco didn't know how to respond so he didn't say anything, hoping to preserve his dignity.

 

“Come in then,” Weasley beckoned. “He made curry rice today.”

 

*

 

“Are you a cook, Potter? Is that what you do for a living?” Draco sipped at Potter's homemade hot chocolate. It was divine- not that Draco would admit that out loud.

 

Potter seemed to examine the question for insult, when he could find none, he answered, “No. I'm not a cook. I just like to make things.” They, Draco and Potter, seemed to have come to an unspoken understanding in which they tolerated each other as long as the other behaved.

 

“It's true. Harry's really good at making stuff,” Luna chipped in. She and Ginerva were nestled by the sitting room fireplace on a lumpy odd shaped couch that seemed to be filled with beans. Draco had tried to sit on it once, out of the presence of the others, and his body had immediately slid down. He had avoided the damned thing since.

 

“Not that good,” Potter disagreed.

 

“Harry makes all the meals, he sews and knits, and he even made that table next to you,” Luna pointed at the small table next to the armchair Draco sat on. It was a beautiful chestnut brown with fancy floral patterns etched on the door of it's single drawer. Draco remembered admiring it the first time he'd come into this room. “and he takes care of the garden outside.”

 

“Luna.” There was an edge to Potter's voice.

 

“I really wish you would come to the shop sometimes. Neville and I really appreciate the plants you've donated.”

 

Potter rose from his seat and stormed out of the room.

 

Luna sighed and snuggled deeper into Ginerva's embrace. “Don't worry. He'll come around.” Ginerva stroked Luna's hair as she comforted her girlfriend.

 

The atmosphere of the room had chilled but Draco couldn't help asking. “What does Potter do all day?”

 

Now that Draco thought about it, Potter was always around when he visited. He hadn't thought anything of it because it was Potter's home after all, but he now realized how strange that was. Sometimes Ginerva was stuck at Auror training so she missed dinner. There were times when Luna was absent because she was closing her and Longbottom's herbology shop. Potter was always home.

 

“Harry does what he needs to do,” was Luna's cryptic reply.

 

“Yeah,” Ginerva snorted, “as long as it doesn't involve other people.”

 

“Ginny!” Luna scolded.

 

“You coddle him to much, Luna. Even you know this is getting out of hand!”

 

 _This seems to be a long running argument_ , Draco thought.

 

“Ever since Ron and Hermione left-”

 

“Granger and Weasley left?” Draco interrupted.

 

“Wow. You really have been out of the loop.” Ginerva answered. “Ron and Hermione are living in Australia.”

 

Draco was stunned. He thought it was strange that he hadn't seen Weasley or Granger but he hadn't imagined that the trio had broken up.

 

“They write and Floo-call, of course, but it's not really the same.” Ginerva continued. “After they left, Harry went out less and less. Now he refuses to meet with even our schoolmates.” She seemed to be talking to herself on this last part.

 

Draco didn't know what to say. In truth, he'd done the same after the war. He'd avoided most people and it was only close friends like Pansy and Blaise that kept in contact through sheer force of will. He could sympathize with Potter's wish for seclusion. Although he couldn't imagine that Potter's desire stemmed from the same place as Draco's. After all, they had been on opposite sides of the war.

 

*

 

It was on one of the rare occasions when it was just him and Potter that Draco finally asked, “Do you really knit, Potter?”

 

“Yes, I do, Malfoy.” Potter sounded defensive.

 

Draco smirked. He really couldn't imagine the reason for Potter's tone.

 

“And before you take the piss, I'll have you know that it's a very handy skill, especially in the winter -which, I'll remind you, we are in.”

 

“Of course,” Draco agreed. He tried to smother his grin but Potter's expression told him he was doing a very poor job.

 

*

 

Quigley was doing a very good job of dodging Draco these days. Unfortunately for him, Draco was indeed the son of Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, and thus he was an unstoppable force when he had a mission.

 

“Hello, sir,” Draco greeted Quigley on his way out to lunch. Draco had been freezing his balls off waiting at the side of the building, but it was worth it for this very moment.

 

“Malfoy.” Quigley nodded, bowing his head and rushing as fast as he could on his stubby legs. Draco had inches on the man and his long legs easily caught up.

 

“I thought I might treat you to lunch today, sir. One's subordinate should do at least that once in a while. Don't you think so?”

“W- well,” Quigley stumbled.

 

“I completely agree, sir!” Draco answered and steered Quigley towards a cafe down the street.

 

*

 

Draco pounced soon after they made their orders. “Since we have this rare moment to speak, sir, I would like to talk about my latest pick.”

 

“I was actually hoping to have a quiet lunch, Malfoy.” Quigley squirmed in his seat. Draco could see that he was gearing up to give Draco his usual spiel.

 

“And I agree!” That stopped Quigley. “When would you prefer our meeting, sir? I look forward to it.”

 

“Actually-”

 

“After lunch then?”

 

“Well-”

 

“How about an afternoon appointment? No? Then perhaps we can share a taxi home.” Draco continually leaned in until he was invading Quigley's space. “I hope you understand, sir,” Draco patted Quigley's arm as his eyes zeroed in. “That I am very eager about this manuscript. I am willing to meet with you until I can convince you of it's value.”

 

Quigley faltered. Then he sighed, “I understand your determination, Malfoy.”

 

Draco retreated a little but kept his guard up. It was much too soon to call this a victory.

 

“I was once like you,” Quigley continued. Draco snorted internally, _Not fucking likely_. “I came into this business with the same spirit and drive that I see in you.”

 

In Draco's five years he had never seen anything resembling spirit or drive from Quigley, but he let the older man continue.

 

“But I had bosses as well. Like I do now, they understood the importance of a bottom line.” Quigley's eyes looked far away. “There have been works, in my time, that I believed were inspiring but I've learned that the public doesn't want to be inspired. They want cheap entertainment. That's what they want.”

 

Draco suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling that he was truly seeing this man for the first time. “Sir.”

 

“Putting your heart and faith in a piece, Malfoy, requires a very big sacrifice.” Quigley looked straight at Draco through his declaration.

 

They sat in silence for a while until it was broken by the arrival of their food. Nearing the end of their meal, Quigley spoke again. “Alright.” Draco looked up. “Bring me the script Mr. Malfoy. We'll see what we can do.”

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

*

 

Draco practically floated out of the office that evening. He even petted the cantankerous doormat. The creature wasn't quite so awful once he stopped biting Draco's ankles. The door didn't open right away which told him that neither Ginerva nor Luna were home. They had explained to him that somehow Biddle informed them of visitors. He was sure that Biddle informed Potter as well but Potter never came to the door. At least not until Draco knocked for a while.

 

Draco was just about to begin knocking when Potter's voice called, “I'm in the back, Malfoy!” Draco walked towards Potter's voice. He looked over the top of the fence leading to the house's backyard and saw Potter on his knees gardening. “Conquering hero, fearsome gardener. You truly do it all, Potter.”

 

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Potter answered, not even looking up at Draco. “You're here early.”

 

Draco considered that he now had an expected arrival time. “I have good news for Ginerva.”

 

“I want you to know that I think it's so pretentious that you call her that.” Potter hefted himself up and brushed dirt off his jeans.

 

“Noted,” Draco answered. “'Mr. Lucas your words are the light by which I light my steps',” Draco quoted at Potter sarcastically.

 

Potter turned to look at him, eyebrow raised, “James Lucas? Really? Please don't reduce me to Ogalbee's poor shadow of Christ. At least grant me the respect of Sinestra's Dennis Brocklehurst.”

 

Draco was shocked to hear Potter knowledgeably list some of Draco's own personal favorite writers. “Potter? You can read?”

 

“Funny, Malfoy.” Potter glared at him.

 

Draco was only half joking. At school, he had always assumed that any passable scholastic achievements of Potter's were a result of Granger's manipulations. _Gryffindor honor code my arse_.

 

Potter returned to ignoring Draco, so Draco gave himself permission to snoop around Potter's garden. It was almost impressive, the array that Potter had. At every corner there was a shock of colorful blooms, bursting with life. Of course, the Manor's gardens were more vast and rich, but it had the advantage of a troop of house elves to care for it. He'd almost managed to forget Potter's presence in his exploration until he heard some rustling. He looked up to see Potter taking off his shirt, exposing his back.

 

“Fucking hell, Potter! How does a vagrant like you have a body like that?”

 

Potter turned around to face Draco again, one of his grimace-smiles tugging at his lips. “Do you actually just say everything that comes into your head, Malfoy?”

 

Draco ignored the question. “I mean it, Potter. I know you do absolutely nothing all day-” Potter gave him a look, “so you must be using some type of Dark Magic or something.” Draco moved closer to more openly ogle Potter's body. Potter's hands twitched, as if he considered covering himself up but instead shrugged and let Draco get on with it.

 

“I do not use Dark Magic to stay in shape,” Potter scoffed.

 

Draco gave _him_ a look.

 

“I walk.” Potter blushed, now folding his arms defensively.

 

“Bullshit.” Draco called Potter out on his filthy lie. “You do not get these,” Draco smacked Potter's abs making the other man squawk, “from _walking_.”

 

“I run too,” Potter expanded, then more quietly, as if an afterthought, “I fly sometimes too, during cloudy nights.”

 

“Really?” Draco mused. He, himself, hadn't flown since school. Maybe since sixth year. He knew for a fact that he was little more than skin and bones these days and that the hard-earned muscles of his Quidditch days had long since melted off.

 

“Malfoy.”

 

“What?”

 

“You're rubbing me.”

 

Draco came back to himself and looked down, “Oh.” He looked up at Potter and saw that Potter's flush had deepened. “I am.”

 

Potter waited a few seconds. “Will you be stopping anytime soon?”

 

Draco considered it. “Do you want me to?” Draco moved closer.

 

Potter stayed. Then, “No,” he whispered and pulled Draco in.

 

The kiss was just as spectacular as Draco expected it to be. Then he realized that he actually had been expecting to kiss Potter. Then he stopped thinking.

 

*

 

Weasley came home to find Draco and Potter making out on the bean-couch next to the fire. Draco was straddling Potter and perfectly lost, so it was Potter that acknowledged Weasley.

 

“Er...”

 

Draco pulled away when he noticed that Potter was no longer participating, and that his hands had stopped rubbing along Draco's back. He turned to address Weasley. “Hello, Ginerva.”

 

“Draco.” Weasley nodded at Draco, her smile smug. “I'll leave you to it then.” She nodded then made her way to the stairs.

 

Draco sighed. He was loath to move but he was here on actual, official business. He smacked a kiss on Potter's lips, gently stroking the brunette's thighs. “Back in a bit.”

 

His trek to follow Weasley up the stairs was a little awkward. Halfway up the stays he had to finally stop and adjust himself.

 

“Don't let me stop you. Go let Harry take care of that for you.” Weasley teased from the top of the stairs.

 

Draco refused to be embarrassed. He walked with all of his dignity in-tact to meet Weasley. “I have every intention of doing just that.”

 

 _Then what are you doing here?_ Weasley's expression said.

 

“I need the final chapter.” Draco heavily implied the _duh_ with his tone. He and Potter had just started and he was already a bad influence on Draco.

 

“Why don't you just ask Harry for it?” Weasley spoke to him as if he were a very dim child.

 

“Why would Potter have it?”

 

“Oh,” Weasley said.

 

“What?”

 

“I guess you guys haven't had a chance to do much talking,” Weasley laughed hesitantly, rubbing her hands together. “He wrote it, Malfoy. The book, I mean. I made a copy and gave it to you because I felt the same way you did. It's brilliant. But it's not mine.”

 

Draco heard her correctly but he really hoped he hadn't. “Pardon?”

 

“The book is Harry's.”

 

*

 

Draco refused to open his eyes when morning came. The sunlight from Potter's open window beat on his skin cruelly, but Draco burrowed deeper into Potter's warm, sweetly scented skin.

 

Potter chuckled. “And you're always calling me a lazy bastard.”

 

“You are a lazy bastard,” Draco mumbled into his partner's collar bone. Then he licked it because he wanted to and because he could.

 

“Urrgh,” Potter groaned in response. He stretched then creeped his hand under the sheets to give Draco's bare bottom a slap. “Wake up! I'll make you breakfast.” Then he jumped out of bed and padded to his en-suite.

 

Draco took some time to breath in his and Potter's scent. When he could postpone it no longer, he dragged himself out of the safety of the bed and dressed himself. He made sure that he had all of his things because he knew Potter and had a very miserable idea of how this conversation would go.

 

“Not staying for breakfast?” Potter asked when he came back and saw the state of Draco's dress. His tone was light, warm. His lips were turned up in a full grin. _The brightest I've seen_ , Draco thought morosely.

 

The grin began to dim and Potter's expression transformed into one of concern when Draco remained mute. Draco wanted to say something, anything, to chase that smile and put it back on Potter's handsome face; but he couldn't summon the will.“Everything okay?” Potter asked uncertainly.

 

“I need to ask you for something.”

 

The words had the effect that Draco expected. Potter's expression instantly became guarded. He was shutting Draco out. “What is it?”

 

Draco brought the bound pages of Potter's writings out of his pants pocket and enlarged it.

 

Potter's expression was overcome with surprise. “How did you-” then he stopped. “Ginny.” Potter answered his own question.

 

“I read it,” Draco confessed. He hadn't expected Potter to jump with joy at his confession but he hadn't expected the eruption of anger that possessed the once gentle features. Potter probably hated him now, or rather, again. This was worse than being rejected.

 

“I loved it,” Draco tried helplessly.

 

Potter remained silent.

 

“I-. I -uh, ahem,” Draco was trying to force the words past the lump chocking his throat, “I'd like to publish it.” With shaking hands, Draco rummaged through his pockets until he found one of his business cards. He extended it for Potter to see. “I'm a junior editor.” Potter remained firmly where he was, refusing to accept the card. Draco's hand fell limply to his side.

 

“So this is what you wanted.” Potter's words were almost too quiet to hear. Draco thought that maybe he wasn't meant to hear them.

 

Draco responded anyway. “Yes, at first.” Draco wouldn't lie about that, but he begged Potter to understand. “But I kept coming back for you. I wanted to be around you- with you.”

 

Potter's expression gave a little, and Draco could have cried with relief. “Okay,” Potter said.

 

“Okay?” Draco dared to hope but worry still niggled at him. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

 

“Okay, then be with me.” Potter answered. “Forget what you read. I don't want to publish that shit anyway.”

 

Draco was horrified. “This is not 'shit'!” He shook the script at Potter angrily. He knew it was completely inappropriate, given the circumstances, to be chastising Potter but how could he dare?

 

“Do you know what this book means to me?” Draco demanded. Draco had known magic all his life, so he never fully grasped the awe that clumsy half-blood and muggle born first years buzzed with when they first walked through the magical halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; but he'd felt it when he'd first flipped through these pages. And he'd felt it again and again every time he read this unfinished book. For Potter, the author for _Merlin's_ sake to dismiss it as-

 

“Do you know what this book means to _me_?” Potter countered.

 

Draco froze. “What?”

 

“Do you know why I wrote it?” Potter continued. “Do you know why it's called _Home Flight_?”

 

Draco remained quiet, afraid to interrupt Potter.

 

“I wanted it out of my head,” Potter monologued. “Everyone, every place, everything in that book symbolizes my life. And when I finished writing it I realized that it was only a glorified list demands. That's all my life has been, Draco. Don't you understand that?”

 

Draco did. He could see it now, going over the writing in his head.

 

“I finished that book and I was done.” Potter walked to the side of the bed that he'd slept on. There was a dresser, and on top of it sat a framed Muggle photograph: a bird barely perched on a branch, wings spread as if readying for flight. “So I am asking you to be with me, Draco.”

 

“Why are you making me choose?” Draco could feel tears of frustration building at the corners of his eyes. He clenched his fist angrily, crumpling the card in his hand but refusing to submit to that level of humiliation.

 

“Because this is important, Malfoy.” Potter's tone was as ridged as stone. “You've told me that you came back for me, but how can I believe that?”

 

“Because it's the truth!” His argument sounded pathetic even to his own ears. _The Truth_. What was that worth? It had been less than worthless during the war when The Truth- The Truth that you were scared, that you didn't believe in that pure-blood rubbish anymore- when it could have gotten you killed. The Truth wasn't currency. Even The Truth that Draco was well on his way to being helplessly in love with this idiotic, stubborn, brilliant, introvert of a man couldn't buy him Potter's trust.

 

Potter reached into the dresser door and brought out a stack of papers. Draco's breath caught when he realized that it was the final chapter. Potter laid it on the bed next to him then walked a few steps away creating some distance. “Choose,” he demanded.

 

Draco was suddenly hit with a sense of déjà vu. The feeling of this moment was so close to the one he'd felt weeks ago in his office, when he'd prepared himself to resign and had been halted by the arrival of a strange manuscript. Another choice. Just like he could have easily resigned then, he could leave that script on the bed now and go to Harry; hold him, cling to him.

 

But then he remembered that feeling of helplessness. That day when he felt he'd wasted five years of his life and he'd forgotten the reason he made the choices he'd made. Like a Remembrall, that script had bloomed life back into Draco's existence, reminding him of his purpose; that original drive he'd had that stemmed from his stories, of other worlds told by other people.

 

Draco picked up the manuscript, his decision made. “Goodbye, Potter.”

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and viewing! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](https://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/132183.html).


End file.
